He looks to me for a nod. Doesn't get it.
It's December and the water is cold.

by Margaret Bednar, December 14, 2015

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Micro Poetry - In A Grain of Sand" and write the poem in no more than 10 lines. I would have liked to give a nod to the link to form poetry but went with free verse as I have very little time on my hands lately. Homeschooling two children this year, and one of my daughters is in the musical "The Secret Garden" not to mention our most recent move to the NC mountains. Our whole family will move to the NC mountains once the school year is finished.

We do make plenty of visits to our rental cottage and these images are along the quaint mountain road. My 8 year old son always notices small, almost hidden things at times. He even held up a "frosted" piece of grass for me to photograph. It's not a grain of sand, but it's a blade of grass :)

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Flash Fiction 55" This past week I helped move my husband to our rental cottage in the NC mountains snuggled near the Blue Ridge Parkway. We will join him once the kids are finished with their school year. Looking forward to calling this area home. Until then, we will be making a lot of road trips.

I've been traveling visiting my son in NYC over Thanksgiving (all 6 children together = a happy mother) and moving part of our family to the North Carolina mountains - we will all join up after school ends in June. I've missed posting to the poetry challenges - and am glad to spend a bit of time tonight playing along.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

I will be taking a blogger break for the next week. I will not be posting but will be catching up visiting and commenting on numerous past poetry challenges and posts made this week. A whirlwind of activity - finishing up the week homeschooling my two youngest and at the end of this month will be moving half of our household possessions to the mountains!

I am thankful for my fellow poets and friends here in blogger-land and wish you a wonderful ending to my favorite month of November.

Experimenting with my poetic voice - it really is a storytelling of sorts, that is reading poetry. I erased numerous times, not happy with the way my voice fades in and out and stresses certain words. Not really thrilled with this version, but I have confidence with time I will improve.

I'm Thankful

Bittersweet twines,
grasps a hold of bricks and posts
as kale flashes lavender corsages;
no deferring to colors smoldering.

The tavern in Alexandria, VA was built around 1785, and the City Hotel in 1792. John Gadsby leased the property from 1796-1808 and it is his name that is today attached to this historic location. More info on Wikipedia

HERE is the link to what I copied & pasted below (and there are a few photos).

In September 1816, a young couple arrived by boat from the Caribbean to the port in Old Town Alexandria. They docked off of Prince Street, where the man hired a carriage to transport them to Gadsby’s Tavern, or what was then known as the City Hotel, the center of social life in early Alexandria since the 1780s, when Royal Street was part of the country’s first national highway.

According to legend, the young couple was, in appearance at least, well-heeled, and the woman was very beautiful. But she was also very ill. Her husband took room number 8 at Gadsby’s and carried her in. He jarred the door behind them, and as he did so, the number 8 slid sideways—the symbol for infinity.

Frantic with worry, the man called for a doctor and two nurses. When they arrived to see the patient, however, the man refused to give his name or his companion’s to the attendants or to Mr. Gadsby, the owner of the hotel.

Soon rumors were flying around Old Town about the woman’s identity, and they continue to this day. Some say she was the daughter of Aaron Burr, a famous but none-too-popular politician of his day whose daughter Theodosia was presumed dead, having been lost at sea years earlier, but there were whispers that Theodosia had run away with a lover and her earlier disappearance was a cover-up. Others speculated that she was the daughter of an English lord eloping with her lover, a commoner. Some people even believe that she was Napoleon Bonaparte in disguise.

Whatever her identity, the woman languished in pain for three weeks, succumbing to her illness on October 14, 1816. Just before she died, her husband asked Mr. Gadsby and those attending her to come to her bedside. Her fate was inevitable, so the couple asked those gathered to swear an oath. In that oath, they swore they would never reveal the identity of either the man or the woman.

The woman was buried at St. Paul’s Cemetery, just south of Duke Street. Her husband paid for the elaborate tabletop tombstone and the inscription of the long, melancholy love letter inscribed upon the stone. The epitaph begins, “To the Memory of a Female Stranger…”

This is where the story gets even more peculiar. Immediately after the woman’s death, the man traveling with her left town without paying for any of the expenses they had incurred, including the room at Gadsby’s, the medical care his wife received, and the burial and funeral.

Some people even say that the female stranger also “lives on” at Gadsby’s as a ghost, haunting its halls and rooms. Just a few years ago a young student came home from college and took a summer job as a server at Gadsby’s. On her first night working at the restaurant, she went to the kitchen to pick up her customers’ meals. She positioned the plates on her arms, turned around, and the Female Stranger was staring her in the face. She spoke to the girl and vanished. Terrified, the server screamed, dropped the plates and fled the restaurant.

Other people say they’ve seen the Female Stranger at Gadsby’s in room number 8 and at parties in the ballroom. But does she really haunt the building? You’ll have to take the Ghost and Graveyard Tour to decide for yourself.

Alexandrians were furious. But the man had been quite clever: the only people who knew his identity, or that of the Female Stranger, had sworn an oath that they would keep their identities secret. Thus his debts would go unpaid, and the mystery lives on today.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

When I was a child, I loved a willow tree. She embraced me with cascading,
filtered-green light, offered me a haven where butterflies were fairies & sprites, hid me
when I tried to make willow bark tea (Stirred leaves and bark in hot water. Sipped. And spit.)

Willow fed my soul, allowed me to peek out at the world. Observe. Safely retreat.
Late fall, I'd watch her golden sheen hang on far longer than most; I liked to think
because she would miss me. I know I missed her.

I turn fifty this November. Contemplate time upon a park bench as Autumn's bounty slowly fades, falls. Admire near perfection; for there is no willow tree in sight. Perhaps I will find her
before season's end, say hello once again to wood-nymphs and anglewings.

by Margaret Bednar, November 8, 2015

A willow tree, in my minds eye, is the grandest of trees. I'd have to say the Southern Live Oak is my second favorite tree with it's wide spread and heavy branches .

Hallow means Saint. Who says Catholics can't do guts and gore with the best of them. When my kids were young, I did dress them as saints a few times (not the blood and gore I noted above, but perhaps I should have!)

Googling costume ideas for this year, I saw a Mother Teresa with a short, tight dress with lots of cleavage. I would be so afraid lightening would strike me! Ha.

We had fun this year. My youngest was Dracula, and my oldest a skeleton in NYC.

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Flash 55." My internet connection is mainly not working at my house and I will be hit and miss until we can have the cable company come and work its magic. Trying to do everything from my cell phone is not ideal.

Moses Cone Memorial Park is located along the Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina. Moses Cone grew wealthy with the denim industry and built a mansion in the Appalachian Mountains just outside of Boone and Blowing Rock, NC. He built his 13,000 square foot mansion (1901), Flat Top Manor, high on a hill overlooking Bass Lake, 25 miles of carriage trails, and 3,500 acres. Within these 3,500 acres he had a prosperous apple orchard, "China Orchard".

I walked the gently sloping trail to Bass Lake and passed the old apple orchard. A sign and fence warn of pesticide contamination and forbid children and people beyond a certain point. A few trees still stand, most are gone. It fascinated me... The thought of Moses Cone being one of the fist conservationists, yet the soil now contains "traces" of pesticides and his good intentions...

HERE is a link to a blog that has a few photos and a quick history of the place. HERE is the Blue Ridge Heritage website.

by Margaret Bednar, September 29, 2015
The cardinal grows new feathers August through September and the edges are tipped with brown which dulls their appearance until spring when the tips have worn off and becomes a bright red. This is something new I learned today as I noticed the cardinals were a bit drab looking today.

If a heavy frost hits early in the season, the sun and cool nights will NOT have a chance to change the leaves to their rightful bright fall colors. The sumac turns red first, so I guess it is not threatened.

I hope I make it up to the mountains before the colors peak - and I hope Mr. Frost politely stays away.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

for the slanted glide of feathered quill
clean and crisp upon parchment

for considered thoughts.

Yet there it sits, curvaceous;
merely ornamental upon my desk

a testament of bygone days
when words were cherished

now more often than not

replaced with quickly clicking keys
and perfectly spaced words.

by Margaret Bednar, September 27, 2015

This is for Magpie Tales 287. It's been a while since I have played, but this challenge was instrumental to my creativity when I first started writing poetry! It's nice to participate again. Please do your self a favor and visit the other poets.

Grammar police: sets or sits? :)

Someone commented my blog's "verification" is giving them trouble. I checked my status and I have it turned off - there should be NO verification code to type in. Please let me know if this is showing up if you post a comment. Thanks.

This plant which looks similar to a blue berry is actually poisonous however has been used for medicinal purposes dating back a very long time. It is referred to as Solomon's Seal and was given this name due to its appearance at the cross section of its stem where it attaches to the underground root structure. The legend of King Solomon's Seal is shared by Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The Doctrine of Signatures is a theory that plants were "signed" by God to indicate their intended use by man. I at first thought it was a choke berry - but the leaves were markedly different.

an excerpt from the poem "Rome": (for the full version, click on the name above).

Time has seeped into
the cracks and crevices of
the once mighty Rome
breaking it's walls
and leaving it crumbling in the dust.

and also linked with the Garden's prompt "Play it Again, Toads". I chose the archived challenge "A Word with Laurie - allegro" where I not only had to use the word "allegro" but had to keep the poem to 8 lines AND write it within a minute's time. I took a minute and a half (sorry) but it took me quite a while to research this little poem. It took me forever to find out what this plant was - the choke berry leaves are a bit serrated - so I looked for about 45 minutes until I finally found the correct leaf shape.

Someone commented my blog's "verification" is giving them trouble. I checked my status and I have it turned off - there should be NO verification code to type in. Please let me know if this is showing up if you post a comment. Thanks.

Friday, July 31, 2015

Remembers
how beneath blue skies
you fluttered away before being crushed

and I take note the dusty road
boardered with wildflowers and weeds
may not lead to paradise,
but certainly escape

for which I too may claim.

by Margaret Bednar, July 31, 2015

This poem is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Music with Marion" Watch the video and become inspired... I just voted down my reaction to this song by "The Lemonheads" and this is what transpired. The few clips of Johnny Depp in this video - does anyone know what movie this is?

Saturday, July 25, 2015

This poem is priceless.
This poem is a solicitation.
This poem is a blessing.

This poem is a slowly rising sun
peeking from behind grey-blue clouds,
a splash of ocean spray upon clammy, heated skin,
a pelican skimming rolling waves searching for sustenance.
This poem is priceless.

This poem is a hand upon the small of your back,
empathetic and concerned,
a motivated salesman with sexy brown eyes,
a compass pointing the opposite direction.
This poem is a solicitation.

This poem is a lavender scented invitation,
a lovers' hand playfully tugging,
a silent prayer, joyful tears, a hammock
sagging with the weight of two.
This poem is a blessing.

This poem celebrates simplicity.
This poem is an offer you should not refuse.
This poem is a ticket to happiness.

I remember crying when I was about 7 years old over a balloon I had "befriended" for days and then seeing this short film in middle school years later. The impression of this film has never left me.

I have been gone for over a week visiting my son in Brooklyn. I thoroughly enjoy Prospect Park and am quite smitten with its creator, Frederick Law Olmsted. Purchased a six volume set of his letters and it is quite a walk through the history of his time. He was a man of many passions, the most known his "foresight of how large American cities would become and his designs for parks and suburbs to enhance the lives of their future inhabitants" (Central Park perhaps being his most famous - but arguably not his greatest achievement) Niagara Falls, Capital Building, Boston's "Emerald Necklace" and so much more. He was a journalist for the budding "New York (daily) Times and traveled to the South and became a leading writer against the institution of slavery in America.

PBS has an excellent series on him - Designing America - if you are so inclined to search it out.

An interesting article HERE, with an excerpt I snatched below. It explains the title "Greensward" a bit.

The "Pastoral" Style

Olmsted used the style of the Beautiful—or as he usually called it, the pastoral—to create a sense of the peacefulness of nature and to sooth and restore the spirit. The Pastoral style was the basic mode of his park designs, which he intended to serve as the setting for "unconscious or indirect recreation." The chief purpose of a park, he taught, was "an effect on the human organism by an action of what it presents to view, which action, like that of music, is of a kind that goes back of thought, and cannot be fully given the form of words."11 In such designs there were broad spaces of greensward, broken occasionally by groves of trees. The boundary was indistinct, due to the "obscurity of detail further away" produced by the uneven line and intricate foliage of the trees on the edge of the open space. In other parts the reflection of foliage by bodies of water introduced another element of intricacy and indistinctness. The effect was reminiscent of parks on estates that Olmsted had seen in England, and it was the image of the rich turf of that country, which he described as "green, dripping, glistening, gorgeous," when he first saw it, that remained for him the model of the Pastoral style.

We recently traveled to the mountains for the day. My girls (and a friend) love photo opportunities. They love to put on summer dresses and pile on LOTS of charm and dance, swing, twirl. A few ladies in their 60's were inspired and held hands and skipped like my girls were - they ended up giggling and saying how young it made them feel. Their men WERE smiling as they walked behind them... :)

To get out in the summertime and enjoy the days, to breath in the air, notice the new flowers blooming, the sheep and cows dotting the hills... yes. I hope they always find time to do this together.

Embraced within the womb of
Mother Emanuel, evil sat
And listened to voices praising -
Nine faces looked into hatred,
Undertook a martyrs call to
Evict hate from the game, allowed
Love to rule the day.

For are we all not a patchwork quilt
Of ornately different patterns, textures,
Rich colors? God's tapestry of

Undeniable beauty? Will we ever find the
Sense to grasp tightly and hold all dear?

by Margaret Bednar, June 20, 2015

My feeble attempt to express myself regarding the 9 lives murdered in Charleston SC due to racist hatred - and the moving, and truly heroic voices raised by the victims' families during the bond hearing. I will do my best to never forget their example of what true Christian mercy looks like.

At Morris Brown A.M.E. Church, just a few blocks from Emanuel, the mood of a packed house alternated between grief, hope and resilience. Calls of “enough is enough” echoed as the Rev. John Richard Bryant called for an end to gun violence.

“You look like a quilt, you look like patches,” Mr. Bryant said. “You all fit somewhere.”

Hundreds of people packed the pews of the white-columned Second Presbyterian Church on Thursday evening in a vigil to remember the victims of the shooting. Pastors read Scripture, the congregation sang and the Rev. Sidney Davis delivered a rousing sermon, his voice cracking at times. After reading a passage from the Bible, he said, “Last night, Satan came again. Satan came to say white and black cannot raise God.”

Later, he told the racially mixed congregation that the bullets were not simply penetrating the people who died in the church. “It was all of us dying last night,” he said.

About 20 years ago I descended into the depths of Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. As much as I was mesmerized by what I saw, I also have never repeated it - I had mixed emotions - perhaps the fear of going down with my young children had something to do with it. I will admit, given a choice, I will happily explore the flora and fauna of a forest as opposed to what's below its surface.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Broad-winged hawks cartwheel and dive 'til caught
by chosen mate. They spiral down, a hymn,
it seems, whistles upon mountain air; God
and prayer shimmer and shine. No clouds dim
their joy. I stand beneath mighty wing's shade
for a brief flutter and feel blessed. There goes
spirits free of guilt, of burden. Glazed
with honesty and true righteousness; flaws
not apparent at this distance. 'Tis lies
I've lived - that one will sink like heavy stones
in disrepair if unwilling to dye
one's soul to conform to tenor and tone
of what others think. Hence forth, I'll stretch 'n yawn;
greet each day with courage, no longer a pawn.

by Margaret Bednar, June 1, 2015

Of course, humans are more than just instinct, or so I believe. And as a Catholic have had my share of guilt... but as a Christian, I believe once forgiven we need to let "it" go. Soar in blessed grace and to follow what we know of truth... which is a life long journey - one full of many voices - and a true challenge to listen to very few of them :)

I've taken quiet a poetic break - just busy with family and life - but I have missed my blogging friends and those who partake of the many awesome challenges of the "Imaginary Garden of Real Toads".

And I'm swooping back in with quite a difficult challenge - a "Bout-Rimes" (which is French and means rhymed ends). The ending words are pre-selected. We have been given leeway to use homophones or slant rhymes to the original list and I did accept that offer. The original order and words are:

SO much to learn about this beautiful city. My son's new home will be in Brooklyn and I have been busy with his graduation and apartment hunting. I really enjoyed seeing this city for the first time and below I share a few links that will help you get to know the city as well.

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Go Grimm". The photo is of my daughter helping out a friend with her graduation thesis project (for Wig & Makeup) to make a series come to life - My daughter is Violet the inventor from Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Events" - which is not a Grimm Fairy tale, but I think it loosely fits in and I do love the image.

I enjoyed this link about Fairy Tales and below is an excerpt I found fascinating:

In the mid-17th century, a vogue for magical tales emerged among the intellectuals who frequented the salons of Paris. These salons were regular gatherings hosted by prominent aristocratic women, where women and men could gather together to discuss the issues of the day.

In the 1630s, aristocratic women began to gather in their own living rooms, salons, in order to discuss the topics of their choice: arts and letters, politics, and social matters of immediate concern to the women of their class: marriage, love, financial and physical independence, and access to education. This was a time when women were barred from receiving a formal education. Some of the most gifted women writers of the period came out of these early salons (such as Madeleine de Scudéry and Madame de Lafayette), which encouraged women's independence and pushed against the gender barriers that defined their lives. The salonnières argued particularly for love and intellectual compatibility between the sexes, opposing the system of arranged marriages.

Sometime in the middle of the 17th century, a passion for the conversational parlour game based on the plots of old folk tales swept through the salons. Each salonnière was called upon to retell an old tale or rework an old theme, spinning clever new stories that not only showcased verbal agility and imagination, but also slyly commented on the conditions of aristocratic life. Great emphasis was placed on a mode of delivery that seemed natural and spontaneous. The decorative language of the fairy tales served an important function: disguising the rebellious subtext of the stories and sliding them past the court censors. Critiques of court life (and even of the king) were embedded in extravagant tales and in dark, sharply dystopian ones. Not surprisingly, the tales by women often featured young (but clever) aristocratic girls whose lives were controlled by the arbitrary whims of fathers, kings, and elderly wicked fairies, as well as tales in which groups of wise fairies (i.e., intelligent, independent women) stepped in and put all to rights.

The salon tales as they were originally written and published have been preserved in a monumental work called Le Cabinet des Fées, an enormous collection of stories from the 17th and 18th centuries.[38]

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Nature's Wonders - Haiku" Haiku usually aren't titled (but who am I to follow the rules) and I tried for a trio that describe April. I might come back to this using a different form, but I find the brevity and tight word count an interesting challenge. I did add "Big" to the last stanza and the count is off - but I hope it makes people think of the constellation a bit more...

I'm back from a couple of vacations and getting back into the swing of things took longer than I expected! It's been about three weeks since my last poem and boy do I feel rusty. Haiku is not the easiest thing for me to write ... but I gave it my best effort.

My Photoshop CS5 is giving me a few hick-ups. I updated to the newest Mac operating version and I seem to have "killed" my CS5. So frustrating. So... my smudge beneath my sweet boy is my iPhoto attempt to take out what is always in a horse pasture... poop.

I believe the Big Dipper is brightest in the sky in April - and we have been getting quite a bit of rain here in NC - it makes for dewy mornings and overcast days - but the days the sun does come it is well received.

burn my tongue on spiced Chai. Insist on seconds.
Grandmother praises me for being a lady. I assure her I'm a quick study.

by Margaret Bednar, March 23, 2015

This is for "Imaginary Garden of Real Toads - Play it Again, Toads!" I selected the archived challenge: "Poem sketching" I may have bent the rules a bit for this one, but I wrote a long list of words evoked by the above image. I tried to pick four that were quite different and this is what I got. The four words were: teacup, passion, grandmother, painted

How lucky am I that a poem of Hedegwitch's happened to be there?? ! It is the third stanza and I will provide a link HERE to her Verse Escape Blog (which I follow via e-mail), and the direct poem "Love Letter" for you to see it in it's real context. (Joy, I will delete if you want me to - I hope you don't mind).

I also got lucky with another poem by Tom of Quarry House as I subscribe to his feed as well. It is HERE. His lines are a bit more scattered throughout my "Spam" poem.

Savannah, GA, the thirteenth American colony. General Oglethorpe and 120 passengers landed on a bluff high along the Savannah River and were greeted by the Yamacraw Indian chief, Tomochichi. The General's plans really were of a utopian quality - the only reason he banned Catholics was he was afraid of "Spanish sympathies" with nearby St. Augustine, FL. (Early Savannah history) (Oglethorpe the utopian)

I was away for seven days celebrating 25 years of marriage - we stayed in St. Augustine, FL and Savannah, GA. I have eaten in both rooms of the Herb House and it also has an upstairs which is not open to the public. It has a tiny footprint, but quite a history. The Tavern Inn next door, now called the "Pirate House," has a cellar with secret tunnels that lead to the Savannah River. Both places are reportedly haunted.

Palm a poem as if fragile even if the words are bold. Let them sink into your skin as if moonlight, let them flow through your veins until they become ordinary - for only then will we know they nourished.

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Let Life Happen

"What should I say about your tendency to doubt your struggle or to harmonize your inner and outer life? My wish is ever strong that you find enough patience within you and enough simplicity to have faith. May you gain more and more trust in what is challenging, and confidence in the solitude you bear. Let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right in any case." (Rainer Maria Rilke) Furnborg, Jonsered, Sweden, November 4, 1904 Letters to a Young Poet